Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [105]
“I dunno everythin’,” she started. “’Cos I couldn’t follow ’er all the time. She could ’ave spoke ter others as well. But she were on ter Biddie an’ Norah about the sheets, an’ ter Mags as well, an’ ter Edwards about buckets an’ buckets o’ water up an’ downstairs inter the other part goin’ that way.” She pointed vaguely. “This place is so big I in’t never certain where anyone’s gone ter, but it were out o’ this wing, inter one o’ the places we in’t allowed. An’ they come back wi’ all them bits o’ broken china.”
She looked even more unhappy. “I asked Mr. Tyndale, an’ ’e went all peculiar, like ’e were scared ’alf out of ’is wits. I in’t never seen ’im like that, an all sort o’ stiff an’ proper bloke like ’im. Wot is it, Mr. Pitt? Is it ’cos ’ooever done it is mad? Is that’s wot’s got ’im so scared? Like the back streets ’as come inter their palace wot they thought was all safe from real life?”
“It could be, Gracie,” he said. The thought had flicked through his mind, but he was surprised that she had seen it so sharply. Did it hurt her as it hurt him? Perhaps disillusion was the same, whoever you were. “But it’s something more than that as well. Did Mrs. Sorokine know about the port bottles?”
She shook her head.
“I dunno. I don’t see ’ow she could. ’Less someone else saw ’em an’ told ’er? But I reckon if anyone saw ’em, they’d just ’ave thrown ’em out ’cos o’ the flies. You wouldn’t ’ardly go an’ tell guests, would yer? An’ she wouldn’t ’ave asked, ’cos why would yer? ‘Excuse me, but ’ave yer seen any old wine bottles wi’ blood in ’em?’”
“All the same,” Pitt said thoughtfully, “I wonder if she knew, or guessed? Or if they have nothing to do with the murder.” But even as he spoke, he did not believe it. “That means premeditation,” he said aloud.
“Wot?” she frowned. “’Ave yer tea, Mr. Pitt. Lettin’ it go cold don’t ’elp.”
“No. Thank you.” Absentmindedly he poured it, only marginally aware of the fragrant steam in the air. “It means it wasn’t a sudden crime of madness, on the spur of the moment, like losing your temper. If somebody brought blood in bottles, then they planned it beforehand. You can’t get blood into a wine bottle easily. You would have to use a funnel and pour with great care.”
Gracie frowned. “’Course,” she agreed. “But ’oose blood, an’ wot for?”
“A diversion,” he answered. “That’s all it could be. And it could be any sort of blood, an ox or a sheep, or a rabbit.” He spread marmalade on the first slice of toast and bit into it.
“In’t that much blood in a rabbit,” Gracie pointed out practically.
“Yer could get it at a butcher’s. D’yer s’pose it were blood ter put on the Queen’s sheets, ter scare us off lookin’ too close elsewhere, like?”
He smiled. He had wondered the same thing.
“In’t gonna work, though, is it?” she asked anxiously, trying to read his eyes.
“No,” he answered her. “We won’t stop looking for the truth, whatever it is.” He saw her relax and realized the conflict of emotions crowding within her, led by the fear of disillusion. It was the pain that had tugged at the edge of his own feelings ever since arriving here. He did not wish to see the fragility of those he had grown up admiring, believing to be not only privileged but uniquely deserving of honor. In spite of all their frailties of taste and even loyalty to one another, he had still imagined in them a love of the same values as the best of their subjects. He had taken for granted the acceptance of responsibility for one’s acts, good or bad, of kindness and truth, the value of friendship, and gratitude for good fortune.
She was looking at him steadily, reassured. “Wot d’yer want me ter do, sir? You got the bottles, but I can see if Mrs. Sorokine asked anyone about them?”
His first thought was of Gracie’s safety. “No. You can’t do that without betraying that you found them.”
She stared at him, her eyes widening.
He had hurt her feelings by refusing to let her help. “You have no way of explaining except by saying that you found them,” he said,